


We could.

by agirlsname



Series: Contacts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Fluff, ContactJHW, ContactSH, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Parentlock, Post-Reichenbach issues, Relationship Crisis, Texting, Twitterlock, twitterverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 01:59:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11151828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: We can do better than two weeks.An interpretation of events occurring on the 16th of May 2017; a most dramatic night on Twitter.





	We could.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ContactSH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContactSH/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】We could./我们可以。](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13489485) by [BakerSt233B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerSt233B/pseuds/BakerSt233B)



> In case you have missed it, Sherlock and John are on Twitter. Being snarky and in love and, occasionally, heartbreaking. One evening a few weeks ago it became clear that they were having a fight; John had left the flat with Rosie, and Sherlock was desperately tweeting him, trying to get in contact. The story unfolded gradually through Sherlock's tweets - and I, as an obsessed writer, had to expand on it and fill out the blanks. Here is the result.
> 
> Every text between Sherlock and John in this fic comes directly from Twitter, as well as some side stories and dialogue. I take no credit for the plot!
> 
> The music mentioned is a recommendation from Sherlock in a tweet - and I love it. Especially the first piece on this album reminds me of Sherlock and John a lot. You can listen to it here: [Piano and Violin Duet by Brian Crain and Rita Chepurchenko](https://open.spotify.com/album/5ImZUXYpZnuOzNvbUJiKwF)
> 
> A big thank you to my amazing beta, Akhenaten's Mummy - I cannot believe my own luck in having found you!  
> And of course, thank you to Sherlock and John, for being so very present and brightening my days.
> 
>  
> 
> UPDATE 19/6: This was bound to happen, wasn't it; Sherlock writes something new on Twitter that is not compliant with this little story. The tweets on Father's Day were achingly precious, and fit surprisingly well with my interpretation, apart from one little detail. In my original work, Rosie calls Sherlock "Lerlo" (which people have found very sweet), but yesterday ContactSH announced that she calls him "Serlog" (which is also pretty damn cute). Since it was such an easy thing to change, I did!

“CASE. I need a case.”

John cracks one eye open and glances over at Rosie. She is lying on her back beside him in his bed – old bed – with her arms stretched out to the sides. Her head is tilted slightly backwards, making her mouth hang open and her breathing border on snores. She shows no signs of distress at Sherlock's tantrum in the living room.

“Dull! Dull! Dull! Dull! Dull! Dull!”

John snorts. It would be easy to mistake Sherlock for the two-year-old in this house. His restless steps over the floorboards downstairs bang like a drum in the walls of 221B, but Rosie remains peaceful, her eyelids smooth and her cheeks a delightful pink. It's downright amazing how so much heat can radiate from such a tiny person, John thinks when he carefully lifts the duvet off her before getting out of the bed with a sigh. He feels disoriented and dizzy the way you do when you accidentally doze off at – wow, only half past seven P.M. Well. He can't very well carry on sleeping at this early hour, however much he would like to. It seems he needs to deal with Sherlock, if nothing else.

John closes the safety gate on top of the stairs behind him, and leans his shoulder against the wall when he clumsily works his way down the steps. He blinks when he enters the bright living room, where Sherlock is currently lying on the couch in an impossible pose. His back is arched over the armrest so that the tips of his dark curls almost touch the floor beneath. His face is the same colour as Rosie's from all the blood gathering in his head. John really can't be blamed for laughing a bit at this sight.

Sherlock's eyes are murderous in the middle of his red face.

“This is no laughing matter, John.” Every consonant is like a dagger.

John shakes his head minutely, still smiling. “Sorry.”

Sherlock scowls at him. “You should take this seriously, John. I am on the verge of _death_. I am _dying_.”

“From what, then?”

Sherlock growls and inches even further down towards the floor with his head. “You know what! I am _bored!_ ” His arms come up to brace himself at the floor as his back slides entirely off the armrest, and he gives the couch a push with his legs, making him flip around and rise to his feet in a surprisingly graceful way. Well, not that surprising, really. Sherlock is ridiculously graceful and very, very hot for a provokingly large amount of his time.

Sherlock swirls around, blue dressing gown whirling about, and glares at John accusingly.

“We haven't had a case in two weeks and four days.”

“I know that, love. I wish a case would turn up too. Although I did think some of the cases you've turned down seemed-”

“Don't say _interesting_ , John. Don't insult me”, Sherlock spits, and he stalks away to collapse into his armchair. His hair is irresistibly fluffy and messy after hanging upside down, and the angles on his face look as if they belong on some marble statue even when he's in the worst of his moods. John has never in his life met someone to whom he's been drawn this strongly, _all the_ _bloody_ _time_.

John takes a few steps forward and tilts his head. “You know what _has_ been going on for two weeks today, though?”

“Of course I know.” Sherlock doesn't even look at him. “It doesn't really help matters, does it.”

“I could give you something to do, you know. Help you get rid of some of that stored-up energy.” A mischievous smile plays at John's lips and he deliberately lets it pour into his voice.

Sherlock stares at the ceiling. “Unless you mean becoming a criminal mastermind and creating a mystery for me to solve, I'm not interested.”

“Right.” John nods once, the tiredness welling up inside him again. He turns away and walks into the kitchen, putting on a kettle for lack of something else to do. Something about Sherlock being in this kind of mood has always made his skin crawl with unease. Maybe because Sherlock is utterly incapable of dealing with these feelings. Maybe because John understands that before he met Sherlock, this was the kind of mood driving him to take drugs.

John is almost angry. He is used to this, he is, after living with Sherlock for such a long time. But since everything that's happened, and since John has witnessed Sherlock's relapses – and especially since they started sleeping together – Sherlock's carelessness with himself and with John stings a little more than it did in the beginning.

John has always known, ever since that first night, seeing Sherlock through two windows lifting a pill to his mouth. Sherlock will do anything to escape this; he will take that poison, he will let himself be lured into a game and he will find it fun until it has him lying on the pavement in a pool of blood. And there is nothing John can do to snap him out of it. All he can do is be around, watching Sherlock like a hawk, gun ready, and hope whatever it is threatening Sherlock during nights like this is something that will actually be defeated if John points a gun at it.

And is that the sound of his gun, by the way? The kettle is hissing, but beneath it he can hear a clicking sound from the living room. The safety. _Click_ – on. _Click_ – off.

“Don't shoot at the walls”, he calls as he fills the tea ball. “Rosie is asleep.”

 _Click_ – on. _Click_ – off.

“I can't stand it!” Sherlock suddenly shouts. “I will die of boredom.”

 _Click_ – on. _Click_ – off.

The world is still heavy and thick after John's nap, the rooms still too bright. John is mostly a saint when letting Sherlock throw his fits, but he has no patience tonight, unease still creeping like ants under his skin. He is in a relationship with this man now, for God's sake. It would be nice if he could act like a grown-up for once.

John leans heavily on the doorway to the living room, trying to sound calm through the vague nausea lingering in his throat. “Don't play with my gun.”

Sherlock is still in his chair, head resting on the back, half-closed eyes turned to the ceiling. His limbs are sprawling heavily in every direction, and John's gun is in his right hand. Sherlock waves it around lazily, clicking the safety now and then, his index finger resting on the trigger. _Click_ – on. _Click_ – off.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock draws a breath, eyes not moving from the ceiling.

“I am going to die”, he announces. He lifts the gun with his loose hand and lets the barrel rest against his temple. “Goodbye”, he says matter-of-factly to no one in particular.

Ice cold water washes through John's chest and abdomen. His vision almost turns black when all the blood drains from his head, and he feels like he's on the verge of throwing up his own heart. The worst of it, he vaguely notes, is that this isn't the first time he has felt like this. This was how it felt, _exactly_ like this.

As long as it is contained to his nightmares, he can at least pretend to have forgotten this feeling.

He's standing in front of Sherlock's chair before he knows he's moved, tearing the gun from Sherlock's unresisting grip. Sherlock merely grunts, letting his hand fall down.

“ _Sherlock-_ ” John says again, aiming for anger, aiming for ripping Sherlock apart with the sheer rage of his voice, but it only comes out small, despairing; so, so frightened.

No reaction. Sherlock seems to not even know John is there. Just as well, really, because John does not want to talk. He hurls himself up the stairs and into his old bedroom, the gun dropping to the floor from his shaking hand. He braces himself against the wall and tries to breathe, but the air refuses to leave his lungs. This is not unheard of; he deals with it at least one night a week. He knows it doesn't matter if he keeps his eyes open or closed; whatever he does, all he can see is Sherlock on the pavement, blood in his hair, eyes unseeing.

When John can eventually hear Rosie's even breathing over the chaos of his own blood flow, he relaxes his trembling shoulders. His heart is still pounding, his scar aches.

There is no sound coming from the living room now. John lifts his head, half expecting Sherlock to have followed him, but no, the air around him is hollow and lonely. John swiftly dabs his face with the sleeve of his jumper, picks up the gun and tucks it into his waistband at the back. He quietly clears his throat and steps towards the bed, caressing Rosie's forehead before sliding his hands underneath her to lift her up.

She hums incoherently, coming to awareness slowly.

“Hello, sweetheart”, he mumbles. “We're going away for a bit, you and daddy. I'm gonna put your jacket on and then you can go back to sleep in the stroller, hm?”

“Serlog”, she says into his shoulder.

“Serlog's staying home”, John says, throat aching.

Rosie is heavy with sleep when he puts her jacket on over her pyjamas. He grits his teeth when he reaches into the living room to grab his own jacket, resolutely not looking at Sherlock.

“Serlog sleep”, Rosie comments loudly, looking in the direction of their armchairs. “Serlog sleep?”

“Yeah, Sherlock's also asleep. It's still night.”

It's actually not even eight o'clock, and not yet dark outside. The spring air is cool, waking Rosie up further. She tells him about everything she sees on their way to the tube station, but he doesn't answer and she eventually gets bored. Luckily, bored Rosie means sleepy Rosie, and soon she is asleep in her stroller.

John concentrates on setting one foot in front of the other, on not stumbling even though he's still trembling. This is also not new.

It's an ordinary Tuesday night, and the tube is as peaceful as he had hoped it would be. When he sinks down on the seat and feels the wagon move beneath him, he almost regrets this; now it feels like Sherlock actually _is_ dead. The images are still flashing before his eyes; a free fall with a big coat like black wings – blood on the pavement – a red smear on a smooth white shirt – the barrel and the temple. _I am going to die._

John doesn't want to be on this train. But the thought of facing Sherlock makes him sick.

How can anyone be so cruel.

The phone vibrates in his pocket. John closes his eyes, and by the time he can stand the thought of seeing Sherlock's name on the display, the phone has buzzed once more.

 

Sherlock 20.01  
Where have you gone? SH

Sherlock 20.05  
Phone, keys and wallet. SH

 

Oh, brilliant observation. Clever fucking you. It took him long enough to notice, too tangled up in his mind palace and this oh so dangerous boredom – that's how Sherlock is, always has been, and John tries not to be bitter about it. He fails.

 

Sherlock 20.06  
It's rude not to say goodbye. SH

 

John pockets his phone and stares at his reflection in the mirror. Then he closes his eyes instead. He hates that look on his own face.

 

Sherlock 20.10  
It wasn't even loaded. SH

 

And here comes the deduction. It took him unbelievably long. John huffs a breath, like a silent laugh, only the very opposite of it.

 

Sherlock 20.13  
And even if it was I wouldn't have actually done it. SH

 

He made John watch him jump from a bloody building and now he is defending himself. Sherlock still has no idea how that felt, does he. John would have thought it wouldn't be that difficult a deduction; even without all the evidence from before the fall, and the evidence crowding in that horrible moment when John's fingers pressed against his wrist; all that aside, John's nightmares wake Sherlock up every time. They never speak, and mostly Sherlock pretends to be asleep. Anything not to take this ugly, rotten past and put it in the air between them.

Too late now.

 

Sherlock 20.27  
I forgot that it would be a sensitive spot for you. SH

 

John has to clench his fists together so hard it hurts, in order not to hit something. He forgot, well that's fucking convenient for him. John never forgets. He is still never free from this, not even for a day, not even for an hour. He keeps waiting for Sherlock to disappear, to get consumed by his own mind, to leave ordinary deadly John Watson behind and run happily straight into hell.

So this will not be brushed off. This is no joke. This is blood on the pavement and it is two years, and it is Sherlock coming back when it's too late and making a joke of it. John cannot keep pretending he isn't still grieving the man who shares his bed.

John searches in his contact list, opens Harry's profile. The last text he sent her is four months old. He hadn't even started sleeping with Sherlock then, he realises.

She's sober, though. He really hopes she's still sober, because he cannot stand the thought of seeing any one of his friends right now.

 

sent 20.29  
Hey, sorry to bother you on a weekday evening. Can Rosie and I stay at your place for the night?

 

The answer comes immediately; a good sign.

 

Harry 20.30  
Of course. Everything all right? I have tea.

sent 20.30  
Great. Be there in half an hour.

 

John changes trains in a haze, anger and fear still making him stumble on nothing. The phone starts buzzing again; an incoming call. John can count the times Sherlock has called him on the fingers of one hand. Not laughing it off, then.

He doesn't answer, not even when the phone starts buzzing constantly for five minutes.

 

Sherlock 20.38  
Answer your phone.

 

The phone keeps buzzing with calls and texts, but John stops looking. He drags himself through a Tesco near Harry's place, buying toothbrushes, nappies and some breakfast for Rosie. The cashier looks at him twice, but he doesn't look back. He decidedly does not want to know what he looks like right now.

He pauses at Harry's doorstep, unable to resist looking at the phone again. Twenty-one missed calls and two texts.

 

Sherlock 20.53  
John.

Sherlock 20.53  
It was reckless of me.

 

John sets his jaw and types out an answer before knocking on the door.

 

sent 20.59  
It was heartless, that's what it was.

 

Harry opens the door and smiles when she sees them. Genuinely happy, John thinks. He doesn't need her to pretend for him, but she doesn't seem to. She helps him get the stroller into the hall, and when John closes the door behind him she puts her hands on her hips.

“You look like you need one thousand hugs.”

“I'm fi-”, he starts, but she knew he would.

“Well I'm not gonna spoil you, you'll only get one.”

She snakes past the stroller and puts her arms around him. He must really look a wreck, because they don't usually do this. It strikes him how similar they are; they are the same height, both of them strong and compact. It makes them fit nicely together. Which almost makes John cry, damn it.

“You are not fine”, Harry whispers against his shoulder.

“I'm really not, no.”

His phone vibrates between them in his pocket. Harry makes a questioning sound but he shakes his head, keeping his hands on her back.

“Put Rosie down in my bed”, she says when she finally lets go. “I'll take the couch tonight.”

“You don't have to-”

“You need to sleep properly. It's no problem. I have the day off tomorrow, anyway.”

Rosie barely rouses when John transfers her to Harry's bed. He kisses her forehead, briefly breathing in the comforting scent of her hair. Then he joins Harry in the living room. He wishes it wasn't quite so late; it's easier to hang out when they have Rosie with them. In fact, they have been able to bond with each other a bit since she was born. Without the child between them, though, John fears the old stiffness will come back.

He lands defeated in the armchair. Harry sits on the couch with his phone in her hand. “It kept buzzing.”

He silently takes it from her.

 

Sherlock 21.03  
I wasn't thinking.

Sherlock 21.13  
Pick up.

Sherlock 21.18  
We can do better than two weeks.

 

John sinks forward into his hands. Everything is suddenly so unbearably real. What is he doing? He took his daughter and fled his own flat without saying goodbye to his boyfriend because he couldn't stand looking at the man any more. He hadn't thought about what would come after, his love for Sherlock so certain that he didn't consider if this really is what he wants. Because it's not a question about what he wants, really, but it is a question about what is actually good for him. Now Sherlock is obviously panicking and, well, if John wants to break up, now would be a tremendously good time.

The phone has stopped ringing. John puts it at the table and looks at Harry.

“Please don't ask”, he says. “Tell me how you've been.”

Harry does. She tells him brightly about work, exaggerating anecdotes, and when she tells him about friends she chooses the weirdest ones just to lighten the mood, filling it all with her sparkle and enthusiasm. She doesn't mention how long she's been sober, but John is now certain it's pretty long. Harry is coming to life again, he can tell. She avoids mentioning Clara and he avoids asking about her love life, the conversation stays civil and after half an hour he can almost breathe again.

 

Sherlock 21.49  
I'll be better.

 

John clears his throat. “I was promised a cuppa.”

“Of course”, she smiles, “how rude of me.” She walks into the kitchen. John closes his eyes as she slams cupboards and runs the tap, the cold fear settling back into his stomach.

Harry comes back with a tray carrying two tea cups and a large kettle. John's stomach makes a dumb surge at the sight. Oh, is that how it's going to be then, fighting with Sherlock – or worse, breaking up with him? John won't be able to even look at a bloody tea cup without thinking about Sherlock, because of their stupid inside joke. They were late to the Holmes' Easter dinner because they'd had quite spectacular sex, and when they finally arrived Sherlock told his parents with a straight face that they'd been having tea and forgotten the time. It didn't exactly fool Mycroft, who'd had the misfortune of arriving to 221B to gather them in his car, and had to wait in their living room until they were finished. The sex had been so earth-shattering that John couldn't even bring himself to be sorry, and since then they had been using tea as a euphemism for sex.

Well, this is just a tea cup. John takes it and remembers that Harry always makes her tea too strong. John finds he almost welcomes it right now.

 

Sherlock 21.57  
I was an idiot.

 

Harry sips her tea silently. John burns himself on his.

 

Sherlock 21.57  
I am an idiot.

 

“So, any plans for the summer?”

Harry eyes him for a moment, then clears her throat. “Yeah, I was thinking about…”

John doesn't pick up on a single detail about it, tuning out as soon as he's gotten her to start talking.

 

Sherlock 21.58  
I'm sorry.

 

The edges of John's eyes are hot with suppressed tears, and he lets them fall closed. Harry breaks off.

“John”, she says in a hushed tone. “Shouldn't you take that?”

He draws a deep breath, forcing his eyes open, puts the phone firmly on the table. “No.”

“Sherlock's done something stupid, hasn't he?”

His name jolts through John's body like an electric shock.

“Yeah”, he husks, trying to sound light. “Nothing unusual there.”

“John…”

The phone buzzes against the table.

“Let's just ignore it”, John says. “You were telling me about… summer.”

“And you weren't listening, but fine.”

Harry doesn't have much in the way of plans for the summer and the topic soon runs out. She then asks him about Rosie, a brilliant move really, because that's something John can always talk about. Rosie does happen to be the most remarkable child of all time, after all. But the phone keeps buzzing and buzzing, reminding him of reality every time he thinks he has pushed through the worst of the agony clawing at his chest.

Finally, Harry sighs. “Seriously John, that was ten texts in thirty minutes. Read them, for God's sake.”

“I don't want to talk to him.”

“No, that's not it. If you didn't want to talk to him, you'd set the bloody phone in silent mode. You enjoy hearing the texts come in because you want to know he's thinking about you and desperately wants to reach you, and then you punish him by refusing to answer.”

“You sound like him”, John mutters.

“Well stop playing this childish game and read the bloody texts.”

 

Sherlock 22.04  
Please come home.

Sherlock 22.12  
At least tell me you're both ok.

Sherlock 22.14  
Do I have to call Mycroft?

Sherlock 22.20  
Ok. At Harry's. Fine. Good.

Sherlock 22.24  
Are you telling her?

Sherlock 22.25  
About us being a thing.

Sherlock 22.26  
If we're still a thing.

Sherlock 22.27  
John, this is horrible.

Sherlock 22.29  
Do I need to give you space?

Sherlock 22.33  
John, tell me what to do.

 

He cannot help it any more. His vision becomes blurry when he thinks about another text thread, only two weeks ago. He was so nervous that night, but in a wonderful way, so dedicated and so sure. He was pacing in their empty flat, waiting for Sherlock to come home from his night out with a ghost from his past. John knew it was important to him, and he tried not to be jealous. _Oh relax_ , Sherlock had said when John had not been thrilled over Victor's sudden appearance in their lives, _it was you rodgering me senseless this morning._

But that was this morning, John had wanted to answer. What about tomorrow?

In a quiet 221B, John decided that he was waiting for something that would never just appear. If he wanted Sherlock, he would have to reach for him, he would have to make that choice. He was not prepared to share, not now, not ever. His hands had been firm around his phone but his breathing had been trembling with sweet nervousness, the anticipation of living through the very last minutes of longing for something he'd wanted for years.

 

 _Sherlock 23.47  
_ _I will be home soon. SH_

 _sent 00.25  
_ _It's soon._

 _sent 00.34  
_ _I made tea. Just in case._

 _sent 00.41  
_ _Just for one._

 _sent 00.41  
_ _All the time. From now on._

 _sent 00.42  
_ _Just for you, I mean._

 _Sherlock 00.45  
_ _What? I'm in a taxi, on my way! SH_

 _sent 00.45  
_ _Oh, good. I've had a thought._

 _Sherlock 00.47  
_ _I love thoughts. Do go on. SH_

 _Sherlock 00.47  
_ _Well, some thoughts. SH_

 _Sherlock 00.48  
_ _Is this a good thought? SH_

 _sent 00.50  
_ _I hope so._

 _sent 00.50  
_ _Can we be… a thing?_

 _sent 00.51  
_ _Like a real thing._

 _sent 00.53  
_ _Because I would really like that._

 _Sherlock 00.54  
_ _Oh._

 _Sherlock 00.55  
_ _Really?_

 _sent 00.55  
_ _Really, really._

 _Sherlock 00.55  
_ _I mean yes._

 _Sherlock 00.55  
_ _Yes. SH_

 _sent 00.57  
_ _Perfect._

 

John raises his gaze to Harry, physically feeling how the heartbreak must show in his eyes.

“So”, she says. “Are we gonna keep pretending you're not in love with each other?”

He lets out a long breath. Then he lets himself out of the hateful closet.

“No.”

She gasps, a large smile spreading over her gaping face. “Oh my God! _Oh my God John_ _Watson_ are you admitting you're bisexual?!”

“See, this is why I didn't tell you. You're making such a big deal out of it.”

She raises her eyebrows. “That's _not_ why you didn't tell me. How long have you been together?”

“Only two weeks”, he says but then he corrects this half-lie. “Well. We've been… sleeping together for almost four months.”

“And no one knows about it?”

“No. Not yet. I'm… I'm thinking I'll write up a blog post soon, I just don't know what to say.” He meets her eyes. “I'm not ashamed, and I will not have you accuse me of it.”

“I know you're not. But sometimes it's difficult not to be, isn't it?”

John opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“It's okay, John. We had the same parents. I know.”

They look at each other for a moment, a new understanding between them.

“I don't care about it any more”, John tells her in a hushed voice. “I've never felt this way about anyone else, and it was so fucking close that I didn't get him at all. He's the love of my life, I don't…”

“Then why are you refusing to answer his texts?”

“Because he died on me.”

Harry purses her lips. “And you've never talked about it.”

“Well that's just something we don't do. You know how he is, he is clueless about… you know. _Sentiment._ ”

“Yes, how is he in a relationship, anyway?”

 

Sherlock 22.42  
Mycroft says you bought toiletries and baby things on the way.

 

“Like I said. Clueless.”

 

Sherlock 22.42  
You can't leave.

 

“Has he told you he loves you?”

John actually laughs, and it makes his stomach feel horribly hollow. “No.”

“Have you told him?”

“I think I accidentally did. It was like a month ago, we'd been drinking and we were falling asleep in his bed and I think it slipped. No reaction whatsoever. Maybe he was asleep.”

“Hm.” Harry takes a sip from her tea, and John doesn't like the look on her face. “You sure you want to be in a relationship with someone as closed off as he is?”

“He isn't always like that”, John says, automatically defending Sherlock. “He can be very sweet, actually, surprisingly sweet. Two weeks ago he went to see his ex, just to get some closure, and he noticed I was worried. We weren't a proper couple yet so I guess he didn't know what to say to reassure me. So on his way there he sent me a text, no words, just a bee emoji, because we'd been joking about how we should retire to Sussex when we're old and can't run after criminals any more, and he would keep bees and I would write books about us…”

 

Sherlock 22.49  
I won't do it ever again.

 

Harry's smile is big and sparkling. “That's _adorable._ He's a softie. A secret softie.”

“I suppose so.”

They fall silent for a while. Harry watches him and he suddenly sees how she did this on purpose; making him tell a cute story about his boyfriend to help him realise what he wants.

“So he must take this whole thing pretty hard”, she says, closing the trap around him.

“So it would seem.”

 

Sherlock 22.51  
I'm sorry.

 

“John, come on. He is worried out of his mind.”

“This isn't about him”, John says sharply, “not this time. He'll manage. I, on the other hand, am not okay. And I can't get him through this difficult night when I'm a wreck myself. At least it's not taking me two years.”

Harry takes a sip. “Is it unforgivable? The thing he did.”

“Sometimes I think it is.”

“So you're thinking about leaving him.”

Silence settles in Harry's sitting room once more. Sherlock's voice is flooding John's brain. _I am going to die. Goodbye._

 

Sherlock 23.07  
I can't be more sorry.

 

It's ridiculous, this life of his. The things he puts up with. The things he forgives.

But in the end of the day, John cannot picture himself anywhere else than in Sussex with an old, grumpy, secretly soft Sherlock Holmes. They always talk about it lightly like they don't really mean it, but John does. In fact, he will be stunned at his own luck if his life really gets to turn out that way. When he came back from Afghanistan he thought his life was practically over; and then once more, when Sherlock died. And now here he is, and he has a chance with the most extraordinary life he can imagine. Because however ridiculous it seems, it all makes perfect sense to him. He has the privilege of a future that is sculpted just for him, together with the one person he has ever loved so deeply he just doesn't know how not to.

 

Sherlock 23.11  
Don't leave.

 

Harry rises from the sofa. “I'm going to bed. You should answer him, John, don't mess this thing up. You want him.”

She leaves the sitting room. John drinks the last of his cold, too-strong tea, sighs and picks up his phone.

 

sent 23.15  
I'm not leaving you.

Sherlock 23.22  
Then why does it hurt so much.

sent 23.27  
This hurts? Me leaving a couple of hours? How about if I had put a gun to MY head?

sent 23.28  
I told you.

sent 23.29  
Don't joke about death. Not ever. Not under any circumstance.

Sherlock 23.29  
I won't.

Sherlock 23.31  
Please come home.

Sherlock 23.36  
You can leave me if you want, just don't leave fully.

sent 23.38  
I'll be back tomorrow.

sent 23.38  
I just need some space and a good sleep.

Sherlock 23.42  
Then come back. I won't go near you.

sent 23.43  
Tomorrow.

Sherlock 23.51  
Should I come to you?

Sherlock 23.53  
Is this a test?

sent 23.54  
No. It's not a test, nor a joke.

sent 23.55  
I wouldn't be that cruel.

Sherlock 23.56  
In those awful films the person often ignores that kind of request and goes to find them anyway.

sent 23.57  
Yeah, but we're not like that.

Sherlock 23.57  
Ok. I won't come to you.

Sherlock 23.58  
I didn't know what was expected.

sent 23.59  
Nothing. Just stay where you are. I'll always come back. I just need to get away for a few hours.

sent 00.00  
You reminded me of all my nightmares.

Sherlock 00.03  
I'm sorry.

sent 00.05  
We're going to be fine, though. I hope. Good night, Sherlock.

sent 00.06  
Surely.

Sherlock 00.15  
Don't call me that.

Sherlock 00.16  
Goodnight.

Sherlock 00.16  
X

 

John's chest feels black and empty when he lies in Harry's bed, forcing his eyes to stay closed. He concentrates on Rosie's breathing, preparing himself for a night of listening to it as some sort of substitute for sleep. But then the room has stealthily become bright and his phone shows nine new texts he never heard coming, so he must have slept. Without dreaming. The relief of it almost makes him sob.

 

Sherlock 01.36  
John.

Sherlock 01.37  
I love you.

Sherlock 01.40  
It couldn't wait until tomorrow. I apologise.

Sherlock 01.59  
I've loved you since I jumped. Possibly before.

Sherlock 02.04  
I'm sorry I didn't say.

Sherlock 02.05  
I meant to say always and never did.

Sherlock 02.07  
I suppose, technically, I still haven't.

Sherlock 02.16  
I will.

Sherlock 02.24  
And on that note. Good morning, John.

 

***

 

The Wednesday morning is grey. Cold. It should not be this bloody cold in May, John thinks as he turns the corner to Baker Street, hands in his pockets.

He opens the front door carefully, in case Mrs Hudson is having a lie-in. That was in vain, however, because the door upstairs immediately bangs open and Sherlock throws himself down the stairs, feet drumming hard against the steps. At the last one, he abruptly halts, hands hesitantly lingering on the handrails, eyes flickering sharply over John's face.

The man looks a wreck. He is still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, his white shirt wrinkled under the blue dressing gown. His hair is sticking out in all directions, as if the curls are celebrating not being tamed for once. John actually loves his hair like that. Even though Sherlock is a mess who has obviously not slept during the last twenty-four hours, he is still stunning.

John closes the door behind him, using it as an excuse to turn his face away for a moment. Not only is Sherlock's eyes all-seeing, they are at the moment also painfully bare and afraid.

“Why is Rosie still at Harry's?” Sherlock asks when John turns back, his voice rough and worried.

“Harry's dropping her off here tonight. I thought we needed some time to ourselves.”

Sherlock gives one slow nod, eyes not leaving John's even to blink. Sherlock is holding himself perfectly still, like he is afraid the smallest movement in the wrong direction will make everything worse. John wants to snap at him to let it go, to just do what he feels like doing. But Sherlock is new to this, he has lived the better part of his life determined to be so cold that no one would be able to hurt him again. Even if he did begin to abandon that decision the moment John handed him his phone in the lab, that was not terribly long ago.

John hates seeing this hesitancy in Sherlock's normally confident movements, hates the fact that John himself made the hesitation worse by marrying the wrong person right before Sherlock's eyes. And that is something John can hardly demand Sherlock to just snap out of.

John sighs, making sure his voice is soft when he speaks.

“Come here.”

Sherlock finishes the last step and John goes to meet him, putting his arms around him. Sherlock returns the hug, but John feels the tension in his body, the rapid heartbeat in his chest. Sherlock's head lowers to burrow into John's shoulder, a tiny whimper escaping him. John sighs once more, willing himself not to cry, closing his eyes and breathing Sherlock in. Sherlock smells like Sherlock, the scent strengthened because he has not showered, and there is a hint of sweat. The smell is inconveniently sexy.

Sherlock is the one to break away, his breathing ragged with anxiety.

“Let's go upstairs”, John says. He reaches out his hand when Sherlock turns back to the stairs, catching Sherlock's little finger with the crook of his own. They walk the stairs silently, fingers curling around each other, until Sherlock abruptly stops on the landing and turns to John. His lips are pressed together in concentration, his eyes fierce, his face openly showing every emotion shifting across it. John eyes him questioningly and a tremor passes over Sherlock's lips, making them part slightly. An exhalation blows softly over John's face, and then Sherlock draws a new breath, eyes shining when he speaks.

“I love you.”

The text did mean a lot. But John has never heard those words in Sherlock's beautiful voice. His chest constricts and he reaches his free hand out, putting it flat against Sherlock's slightly rough cheek. He nods.

“That's good.”

Sherlock's mouth closes, his brow wrinkles and his breaths come even faster.

“I'm sorry, John. Please-”

“Let's go upstairs first, love”, John interrupts, and Sherlock's eyes turn wet at the endearment. “We're in no rush, I'm here.”

“Okay”, Sherlock whispers.

When they get into the flat, John sits in his armchair, gesturing for Sherlock to do the same. Sherlock takes his seat and puts both hands on the armrests, his back stiffly straight, both feet planted on the ground.

“Okay, Sherlock. We need to talk about this thing now. Can you handle that?”

“Yes”, Sherlock answers obediently. He looks like someone who is about to do a verbal test.

“Because I can't take care of you right now”, John says. “I know this is horrible for you but it really, really is for me too.”

“I know, John. I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, but do you even know what you're apologising for?”

Sherlock looks at him like he is stupid. “For being an idiot.”

“No, I'm not angry with you for being an idiot. I'm angry with you for not realising…” John trails off.

“What?” Sherlock asks impatiently, still not shifting.

“You can't keep gambling with yourself in that way, Sherlock. You need to start taking care of yourself.”

Sherlock scowls. “How is this relevant? The thing of importance here is that _you_ are happy and safe.”

John shakes his head, his forehead frowning in disbelief. “How can you even say that? What about _you_?”

“John, don't you see?” Sherlock loses his pose, urgently leaning forward with burning eyes. “All I want to do is ensure your safety, and all I seem to accomplish is causing you pain. I know you still have nightmares about my fall, but I would do it again, and I would die in actuality if I had to, because it did save you. You are alive.”

“And I am grateful for that, Sherlock. I am. I can't even imagine what you went through for me, and I am acutely aware of it every time I stroke your back. That's not the point here, the point is you don't understand what _I_ went through.”

“Yes, I do.” Sherlock's face reveals nothing, but his eyes have gone hard at John's mention of the scars they never acknowledge. “But you were in London and you were safe, and you had Mary-”

“Don't fucking mention Mary now-”

“-and I wanted nothing but to come back to you, so I fought, every day, to be able to do that. I did what I had to and then I came back. Did you even notice, John? I _did come back for you_.”

“That's not the point, Sherlock!” John shouts. “No, I _loved_ you and I never said, so you took your life thinking you had no one. You stood on the edge of the roof looking at me and crying, and I had the chance to tell you something, _anything_ to make you stop, but I didn't, and you threw your phone away and all I could do was scream your name. I didn't sleep for a year, thinking about what I could have done to make you feel your life was worth living, what I could have said that day or _any_ day during our time together. I was thinking about how alone you must have felt all that time, and I never noticed. And I never told you how you are the most remarkable man I've ever met and how I couldn't imagine the rest of my life without you in it, from the day I moved in. The last time we spoke before you went up on the roof I called you a _machine_. I would have done _anything_ -”

“John.” It falls brokenly from Sherlock's lips. His face is drenched in tears. “I did it to save you.”

“But it still makes me sick every time I think about it. You coming back doesn't reverse things. Those two years are a part of my life now and I am terrified, Sherlock, I am _terrified_ of losing you again. I keep waiting to wake up from this dream where you are miraculously alive, and I don't think I'll ever stop dreading that. I need you to understand this, because I need you to at least bloody take care of yourself, and to never, not under any circumstance whatsoever, put a fucking gun to your head. It doesn't matter that you weren't about to shoot, or that it wasn't loaded. What matters is you didn't understand what that image would do to me, because you don't understand the extent of my grief for you, you don't understand how heartbreakingly much I love you. That scares me, Sherlock.”

In the following silence John hears how loud his own voice has been. He leans against the back of the chair, working to even out his breaths. Sherlock's head is bowed, his shoulders visibly trembling. He has clasped his hands in his lap, holding on to himself almost as though he were praying.

Finally Sherlock gives John a brief glance under his damp eyelashes. “You haven't said.”

“Yes, I have”, John answers, his voice still fierce. “Apart from the fact that for a genius like you it should have been obvious from day one, I told you a month ago.”

“A month and three days”, Sherlock corrects him quietly.

“See? I knew you heard me.”

“Of course I heard you. I lay staring at the ceiling for six hours afterwards.”

“Because you didn't believe me.”

Sherlock raises his head, his voice is still rough but his tone turns detached. “You were extremely drunk and we'd been frequently shagging.”

“So?”

“Oxytocin can fool the brain. It can help create a bond that makes you feel like you're in love, when actually you're not.”

Sherlock's face is still softly agonised, but his eyes turn deductively sharp. John looks back, waiting for Sherlock to finally collect the proof that has already been there for years. At last, he nods slowly.

“Anyway, I obviously miscalculated that one.”

“Obviously”, John says, a smile not far away from his lips. “Because I am.”

Sherlock drops his eyes. “I think I just don't understand why”, he whispers.

“That's the thing.” John's voice is softer now. “That's what I can't stand. I can't stand you being prepared to throw yourself off buildings without a second thought, and not even knowing how deeply it will destroy me. I wish you loved yourself as much as I love you, but I can't make you do it. That's something you need to work out for yourself and I'm sure you will, but in the meantime you need to just trust me. You don't have to understand why I love you, but please, you need to accept that I do. You can't question that because then we won't be able to make this work.”

Sherlock closes his eyes. He leans back in his chair, his hands coming up to rest against his lips. The familiar posture makes something settle in John's stomach, reassuring him, giving him the opportunity to draw one relieved breath.

Sherlock's eyes dart back and forth beneath his closed eyelids. Eventually they open and his hands fall back down to the armrests. He holds his head high, looking John in the eye with a new calm. His voice is steady.

“John, I will admit I did not realise how painful my suicide would be for you. I did not think you cared about me as deeply as I care about you, but new data suggest this was a mistake. I am deeply sorry for the pain I caused you. I am sorry.”

Another relieved breath. John hears his own voice change into something lighter: “You know what you're apologising for now, huh. See, this is the advantage of communication. We should try it more often.”

Sherlock still holds his gaze seriously. “Will you forgive me?”

“Yeah, will _you_ forgive _me_?”

“For what?” Sherlock frowns.

“For taking off.”

Sherlock waves his hand. “It's fine, John.”

“No, it's not fine. This is what I'm talking about. You need to look after yourself, Sherlock. We're in a relationship and it's not okay to leave without a word and refuse to answer texts and calls.”

“You did what you could at that moment.”

“Yes, I did, but that doesn't make it right. You get to be angry about stuff like that. You know, next time you should talk to someone that isn't me.”

Sherlock's eyes narrow suspiciously. “Next time? You plan to do that again?”

“No, I don't _plan_ to but chances are I will, because I'm not perfect either.”

He eyes John sternly. “I would be very upset with you if you did.”

“Good”, John nods. “And who would you complain to?”

Sherlock makes a face. “The skull.”

John huffs out a laugh. “No. What about Mrs Hudson? Lestrade? Molly?” And then he adds, just to make Sherlock answer: “Mycroft?”

Sherlock doesn't react like he expects, though. He does make his Mycroft-grimace, but then he says: “It actually can be helpful to have the British government as my brother.”

“Right. Did it feel better when you'd called him?”

“I suppose he was slightly less insufferable than usual.” This is an extraordinary compliment, one Sherlock would never say to Mycroft's face.

John leans forward in his chair, speaking softly. “You have people who care about you, Sherlock, not just me. You should turn to them when you need them.”

“What would I need them for?”

“Helping you remember that you're a good person who deserves good things. Listening to you complaining about your stupid boyfriend and telling you he's an idiot. Keeping you from panicking and feeling alone.”

Sherlock eyes him thoughtfully, pretending to be unimpressed, but John knows better. “They all know you as well”, he finally says. “I wouldn't want to…”

John nods. “Talk to Molly. She's closer to you than to me, anyway. Plus she knows a thing or two about stupid boyfriends.”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth crooks slightly. “So does Mrs Hudson.”

John smiles back. “Well if I start running a cartel and blow someone's head off, we're in real trouble.”

“At least you'd give me a case.”

They chuckle together, eyeing each other almost shyly. John lets the laughter linger as long as possible, before he speaks again.

“Seriously, though. Will you promise me? Next time we fight, you call Molly.”

“Okay.”

“Good.” John lets out a deep breath, resting his head against the back of the chair. Ridiculous how easy this was, in the end. Why didn't they just talk to each other years ago?

Sherlock also leans back, but his eyes keep wandering, and he shifts in his seat every now and then.

“John, can I make a request?” he asks at last.

“Yes, always. Please always say what you want.”

Sherlock meets John's eyes. “Can we spend the rest of the day in bed?”

John feels a soft smile creep onto his face. “For future reference, I will always find it very, very hard to say no when you ask me that.”

Sherlock smiles back, but there is a small crease on his forehead. “But you feel you should say no?”

“No, no, it's just that I didn't have any breakfast before I left Harry's and I'm kinda hungry.”

“Then I'll make you breakfast in bed.”

John's smile turns even bigger. “Is it breakfast in bed if you didn't wake up in the bed?”

Sherlock frowns. “Why would that matter? It is a breakfast eaten in bed regardless.”

John leans forward, beckoning Sherlock with one finger to do the same. He plants a simple, short kiss on Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's eyes stay open, and John smiles reassuringly when he leans back again.

Sherlock rises to his feet, covering his hesitancy with briskness. “Now go”, he orders. “And don't forget to undress before you lie down.”

John giggles, doing as he is told. Christ, it feels good to lie in Sherlock's bed – their bed – again. He should really try to minimise the amount of nights not spent in this bed. He closes his eyes listening to Sherlock working in the kitchen. The domesticity of it is such a contrast to yesterday's outrage; such a simple thing as the sound of Sherlock turning on the stove seems to soothe John.

Sherlock has never made him breakfast before, but of course he must have deduced John's favourite by the end of their first week at Baker Street, at the latest. And the thing is, he _can_ cook. When John had once discovered this, Sherlock had snorted at his surprise: “It's basic chemistry, John.” He just seldom finds a good enough reason to cook, according to himself; apparently _avoiding starvation_ does not qualify. _Impressing boyfriend with romantic gesture_ seems to, though.

Sherlock enters their bedroom carrying a tray with, John is pleased to see, two sets of plates and tea cups. He cooked John's favourite for the both of them; baked beans, sausages, fried eggs and mushrooms, toast and fresh tomatoes.

John sits up against the headboard, taking his plate. “Hey, if I have to be naked during breakfast, so do you.”

“Oh. Apologies.”

John starts eating when Sherlock undresses. He will never get tired of that sight, but today he is trying to give Sherlock some privacy. The air between them is still too fragile for sex.

Just when Sherlock is about to get under the covers, he remembers something and strides to the dresser. He searches on his phone for a moment before putting it beside the speakers standing on the shelf, carefully turning up the volume. A soft piano fills the room, and is soon joined by a smooth violin. Sherlock turns to John.

“All right?”

“Beautiful”, John smiles, because it is.

They eat in silence, Sherlock without even needing a nudge. The lovely music drapes the room in assurance and calm. John feels the tension drain out of his shoulder, out of his chest, out of Sherlock beside him.

When the plates are empty Sherlock catches his eyes, looking at him gravely.

“John. I do love you. I cannot think of anything of greater importance than this. I will do whatever it takes to make this work.”

The duet in the background makes his words sound grounded and real. The notes seem to caress his face, making him even more breathtakingly beautiful.

John nods. “We _will_ make it work, Sherlock. This-”

“Are you still calling me that?” Sherlock interrupts him, looking wary and a little shy.

John smiles softly. “ _Honey_ ”, he says, and Sherlock visibly relaxes, and for a moment the potential of a country house and beehives buzzes between them. “This is the life I've chosen”, John goes on, “and I intend to stay. I won't leave just because it gets difficult now and then.”

“I will be difficult”, Sherlock states.

“I wouldn't have you any other way. I _love_ you. There are no conditions there, all of you is included.”

“Except when I'm so bored I get reckless and hurt you.”

“No, I love you all the fucking time. I'd just rather you tried not to do that.”

Sherlock blinks slowly at John, who gets momentarily lost in those dark eyelashes against pale skin. “People say I'm the mad one”, he says, “but evidently that is actually you, John Hamish Watson.”

John smiles a little. He almost likes his middle name when Sherlock says it. “Why?”

“You love me.” Sherlock's face is full of wonder and it breaks John's heart a little.

“It does seem a bit reckless, yes”, John admits, trying for a light tone. “But I am a soldier, after all.”

“It's wonderful”, Sherlock whispers.

John reaches out his hand to put it against Sherlock's cheek. “You know what, love, I'm not worried. We are supposed to be together. We managed to get here despite everything that's happened, because John Watson without Sherlock Holmes just doesn't make any damn sense.”

The light of the violin spills over onto Sherlock's face, a soft smile giving him a glow as he leans forward. A sigh of relief escapes John's nostrils when he feels Sherlock's familiar lips on his own, lingering this time. The kiss is slow and attentive and the music adds a gravity to it, pouring meaning into the simplest press of lips. John can feel the taste of love on Sherlock's mouth, and it tastes like honey.

The kisses grow warmer and deeper painfully slowly, the fragility of them making John's chest flutter. Sherlock is present in a way so real that John is frightened of the day when he will no longer be here, alive and warm. He wishes they could be together for eternity – and they will be, as eternal as humans can be. But John does not know what comes after the cottage and the books and the bees. All he knows is Sherlock is here _now_ , soft and smelling and moving and breathing in his arms, and the tangibility of this fleeing moment is bittersweet on their lips.

They lie down to press their bodies against one another. The music creates a separate room for them, for this, and it feels like they have entered another time, an exception from everything and everyone else. John has never experienced such an intimate moment before in his life, and the vulnerability of it makes him almost too scared to breathe. Sherlock is trembling in his arms; his hands, his breath, and John stays and stays and he almost crushes Sherlock's body against his own, fiercely protecting this most precious and fragile thing.

Their hands move and John is acutely aware of every inch of his skin under Sherlock's palms. Sherlock's mouth is impossible to leave, the reassuring honey on it keeping John breathing through the unbearably dense love in his chest. The desire builds inside him and adds to the ache, he aches and aches and aches until he almost flees, but that would mean Sherlock's lips would be gone and he cannot even stand the thought of that. Instead he inches closer to Sherlock, trying to drown the ache in more sensation, but it only makes it build. The way Sherlock buries himself in John's body, the way he whimpers his name, tells him Sherlock feels it too.

Their bodies become more and more urgent, the kisses turning more and more into shared breaths. Sherlock's hand wraps around the both of them and there is no reason that should feel so incredible before he has even started to move. It feels impossible to handle wanting someone this badly at the same time as he loves him this deeply, it feels like it will tear John apart, body and soul. Sherlock struggles not to throw his head back like he usually does, unwilling to leave John's mouth. John tries to stroke Sherlock's back, hair, bottom, but soon his fingers curl and he just clings to Sherlock's shoulders, trying to keep himself from getting lost.

Their breaths mingle with the piano, becoming deep moans to fall in between the notes, turning into whines accompanying the violin. _I love you_ , John tries to say, _Sherlock_ , but he can't, his voice far beyond his own control. Sherlock's stuttering consonants tells him he is trying to speak as well. No words come from their mouths, but still the words are audible in the duet surrounding them.

And then everything is floating and shining and singing and Sherlock is pressing a scream into John's cheek. When John can think again, when he can draw a painful breath, his face is buried in Sherlock's throat and his eyes are leaking tears. He briefly considers trying to hold them back, but realises it will be too big a project for the moment. So he just closes his eyes, feeling the tears flow out of him, letting them release the ache.

“Are you laughing or crying?” Sherlock mumbles.

“I don't know”, John says and sniffs. “Does it matter?”

Sherlock just holds him closer, breathing in John's hair. Eventually the tears still and the breathing becomes even. Easier than before. Possibly easier than ever.

“This album”, Sherlock suddenly says, his voice like a third instrument in the song. “It reminds me of you and me.”

“How?”

“The piano and the violin complete one another perfectly, even though they are quite different from each other. Stupid people tend to not give the piano a second thought, they think it's just a backing to the melody, but this is so much more than that. It adds the stability for the violin, the very foundation to allow it to fly, and without it the violin would be thin, it would be empty – it would fall. There is nothing simple about what the piano does, nothing ordinary or mundane; it is ever changing, it holds myriads of nuances of expression, it is beautiful. Just like you.”

John has to breathe a few times, touched beyond words that Sherlock has thought about this.

“And the violin”, John says, “is so graceful and elegant. It gives the piano light, sort of makes it alive. The violin swings higher and higher, brilliant and beautiful, and the piano follows. It always follows, to get a glimpse of the sky, to sense things it would never be able to do alone.”

“Yes”, Sherlock breathes. “Neither of them would be like that on their own. They need each other to create this extraordinary piece of music.”

They fall silent, their eyes closed, listening. Sherlock is entirely right. It sounds like them.

Eventually, John gets up for a quick visit to the bathroom. When he returns with a damp flannel Sherlock lets himself get cleaned before collapsing back into the mattress, half on his stomach, his face hiding in the pillow. John lies down beside him, putting his lips lightly to Sherlock's half-hidden forehead. Sherlock's breaths are deep and even. Falling asleep, perhaps. John guesses he did not sleep at all last night.

John runs his fingers lightly over Sherlock's back up and down and up again. The bumps tingle against his fingertips.

“We've never talked about this”, he breathes, expecting Sherlock to either be asleep or pretend to be.

But Sherlock mumbles: “It's not a pleasant story.”

“I want to hear it sometime, though. I want to know what you did during those two years.”

“Mmm.”

“Maybe that could be our next fight. You being angry with me for not understanding what _you_ went through.”

“Sounds fair.”

John sighs and rises on his elbows, bending over Sherlock to brush his lips systematically across the scars, every single one of them.

“I love you”, he finally whispers into a sharp shoulder blade.

Sherlock stretches languidly. “Enough to give me another round?”

John chuckles with his nose still pressed to the sharp bone. “Always. Just give me a minute.”

“Mh.” Sherlock turns around to press his back against John's torso. John settles around him, nuzzling at his neck. “When you're ready”, Sherlock says, “I'll change the soundtrack.”

“Beyoncé again?” John smiles.

“Don't mock me, John. You were quite pleased at the time.”

“Whatever inspires you, love.”

Beyoncé in the background does set a mood quite different from the piano and violin duet, and John loves it just as much. He is amazed by how this man can be so _much_ , so many different things, each and every side of him mesmerising and impossible to get enough of. After the second round they get giggly without apparent reason, and Sherlock looks so boyishly happy and adorable with his hair wild and his cheeks red that John has to cover every inch of his face with kisses.

In the late afternoon John's phone buzzes.

“Harry's on her way with Rosie. Let's take a quick shower and get dressed, yeah?”

When they are presentable, Sherlock settles in his chair with his laptop and John starts preparing dinner for the three of them. Soon they hear the front door open, and Rosie's voice drifts up the stairs.

“Serlog?” she says. “Arry, Serlog?”

“Yeah, Sherlock's home with daddy”, Harry answers, her steps thudding against the stairs.

“Serlog, Serlog.”

“You wanna see Sherlock?”

“Yeah.”

John glances at Sherlock through the doorway. His face has taken on a soft kind of urgency John has not seen before. The door opens, Harry comes in and Rosie wriggles in her arms, eyes going to Sherlock's chair.

“Dadda!” she shouts when she sees Sherlock, stretching her arms out.

Sherlock rises from the chair, swiftly striding across the room to take her from Harry. Rosie's short arms lock tightly around his neck. His head bows forward for a moment and then he turns to look at John, as if seeking permission. John's face seems to reassure him, and he closes his eyes, splaying his large hands on Rosie's back.

John watches them and suddenly realises that Sherlock missed Rosie as well. He feels stupid for not understanding sooner, guilt rising in his throat.

“I'm sorry I left with her”, he says quietly. “I should have at least told you where we went.”

Harry disappears back down the stairs under the excuse of taking care of the stroller. Sherlock opens his eyes to meet John's.

“Do you trust me with her?” he asks, his voice melodic like a lullaby for the child still holding on to him.

“Yeah, I do. Yes.”

“Then why did you take her?”

“I-” John tries to shake himself from the tightness in his chest, to endure Sherlock's unwavering eyes. “You didn't even notice when we went. You wouldn't have been able to take care of her if she woke up, not when you were… in that mood.”

“I wouldn't be like that if I were responsible for Rosie.”

If Sherlock yesterday seemed like a two-year-old himself, the difference in his looks now is uncanny. He looks like a father. And this is not the first time Rosie has called him _dadda_.

“Sherlock, I'm sorry. I feel really bad.”

Sherlock closes his eyes again. “She's your child”, he says.

“You know, I don't think that's the whole truth. I think she may be ours.”

Sherlock's eyes peel open again, and he looks at John for a long moment.

“Then you can't take off with her that way ever again”, he says calmly, but with a demand lurking just beneath the surface.

John almost smiles in relief, because however ashamed he feels right now, this is Sherlock taking care of himself.

“I won't”, he promises.

Rosie starts twisting in Sherlock's arms. “Serlog, read.” Sherlock sets her down on the floor and she runs to the shelf she can reach, lifting out a heavy book and almost dropping it at her feet before Sherlock can take it from her. It is Sherlock's book on poisonous spiders. John has never understood the appeal of that book, but his daughter and Sherlock share a burning passion for it. They settle into Sherlock's chair together when Harry returns.

“Thank you for everything”, John tells her. He gestures vaguely to the kitchen. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

“Nah, let's not push it”, Harry smiles.

John laughs softly. “Fine.”

Harry looks into his eyes. “I am glad you came to me, John.”

“Yeah, me too. Thank you, really.”

“Anytime.”

They share a quick hug, not looking at each other when they let go. She sends a wave to Rosie and Sherlock, but they are already absorbed by the book. Harry leaves with one last smile and John proceeds with his cooking.

When the dinner is in the oven he goes to get his laptop, opening his blog for the first time in two weeks. _The Beekeeper and the Author_ , he types in the title space. Then he stares at the blank page. He stares and he stares until the kitchen starts to smell like food and it is time to set the table. “Fuck it”, John mutters to himself and lets his hands wander over the keyboard, writing without thinking.

 

_Some of you may have gathered this from my blog post on the 29 th of January 2010. I could have said this that day, or any day since then really, and perhaps I should have. Anyway, it turns out I'm lucky enough not to be too late to say it. So here you have it._

_Sherlock Holmes is the love of my life._

 

***

 

When Rosie is tucked into bed, and Sherlock is flung on the sofa tweeting on his phone, and John is settling into his armchair with a cup of tea, he opens his laptop again. Sherlock is silent, seemingly not paying John any attention, but John knows Sherlock has already deduced his blog post and is on stand-by if John should need someone to declare how incredibly stupid people are. John's heart beats the slightest bit faster when he logs into his blog.

The first comment is from Harry.

 

_YES!!!! My queer little brother :) I'm so happy for you two!!! You're gonna be the most adorable couple when you're old and grumpy, retiring to Sussex and creating bees ;)_

 

John snorts when he reads it. “Harry is over the moon about us growing old together”, he says with eyes still on the screen. “But I don't know if we can 'create' bees.”

Sherlock tips his head, pursing his lips. “I could try.”

“We could.”

Their eyes meet across the living room. The air between them is smiling when Sherlock answers.

“We could.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can find the original thread [here](https://twitter.com/ContactSH/status/864540844803710978).  
> Don't know the Contacts yet? Go say hi to Sherlock: [@ContactSH](https://twitter.com/ContactSH) and John: [@contactJHW](https://twitter.com/contactJHW).  
> Don't know _me_ yet? Say hi [here](https://twitter.com/agirlsname_) on Twitter!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover] We Could](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14291145) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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